


Something Sweet

by Bohemienne



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Dimidue Week 2019, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route Spoilers, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, M/M, Multi, Past Torture, Reunion Sex, regrettable food safety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-09-26 14:10:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20390989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bohemienne/pseuds/Bohemienne
Summary: Dimitri wants to do something nice for his troops to celebrate capturing Fort Merceus, but could use a few pointers from Dedue. For the Dimidue Week 2019 "Cooking" prompt.





	Something Sweet

The stone walls of Fort Merceus ring with the sounds of celebration. Sylvain and Felix were the first to break into the fort’s considerable cellars, and quickly find themselves locked in a drinking competition in the lower levels, Ingrid and her lieutenants variously trying to referee and also take part. Mercedes and Annette spotted a stash of fresh-baked pastries in the immense kitchens, abandoned just before the siege, and have taken it upon themselves to distribute them to the troops. Ashe and Byleth, ever dutiful, both volunteered for first watch to give the enlisted personnel a well-deserved night off. The raucous celebrations from the enlisted tents circling the fort are sure to rage well into the night.

And Dimitri, well—he finds himself staring down another long sleepless night, this time in the immense and foreign bed that until recently belonged to the fort’s imperial commander, trimmed in red and gold finery and smelling of someone whose blood now stains his hands. He could wander the echoing halls, a dour ghost leaving a chilly pall over his friends’ festivities.

What he needs is to be useful. There are more battles to come, more sieges to make. But his troops deserve their night of revelry. Even if it’s one he cannot share.

What he needs . . .

The thought strikes him suddenly as he paces the fort’s great hall, reflection gliding along the surface of the lengthy banquet table, back and forth. He should do something _for_ them. He’s wasted too much time trying to appease ghosts—he wants the living to feel more alive.

And so he finds himself at the doorway to the armory where Dedue is training, blurting out:

“How does one bake a cake?”

Dedue pauses mid-swing of his axe, and Dimitri is aware of a great many things all at once. Dedue’s shirtless chest, muscles thick and sharp as granite, bristling with potential energy as they were forced to halt their graceful arc. The many, _many_ scars raked across them, some Dimitri remembers all too well (_Cornelia and her lash trailing over their skin, taunting and flirtatious, demanding they confess where the Knights of Seiros were hidden—punishing one to try to force the other to speak_) and other scars whose origin it hurts its heart too much to even guess. And then he sees the quizzical expression on his retainer’s face: surprised, but not displeased, as though his very concept of Dimitri is shifting and stretching to accommodate this new whim.

Dedue lowers the axe he’d been training with and returns it to its rack, passing Dimitri with alarming closeness in order to do so. Dimitri sucks in his breath at the sheen of sweat on Dedue’s skin as the light skims over it, and very nearly forgets why he’d come here in the first place. This sight is enough to knock his own name from his skull.

“Why,” Dedue asks calmly, “do you wish to bake a cake?”

“To celebrate,” Dimitri says, tottering uncertainly at Dedue’s sudden nearness. Weapons returned, he’s grabbed a towel from the floor and is scrubbing himself down without yielding any of the space between them. “To do something nice for—for the others.”

“Don’t you have the mess cooks for that?”

“But that’s the point. _I_ want to be the one to do it. As a show of gratitude.” He lowers his chin. “Except I don’t know how. So it was probably foolish—”

“It sounds perfect.” Dedue drapes the towel over his broad shoulders. “A meaningful gesture.”

Dimitri nearly sags with relief. “You’ll show me how, then? I mean—I wish to do it for myself, only I—”

A funny twitch at the corner of Dedue’s mouth makes Dimitri’s heart stutter. It just might be the first smile he’s seen from him since he returned. “Then I’ll merely give you orders.”

“You almost sound like you’ll enjoy that, Dedue.”

Fire races through his veins as Dedue’s answer trails down his spine. “I think I will.”

* * *

Dimitri didn’t know it was possible to be covered in this much flour and sugar and dribbles of egg. Mercedes is sure to get a laugh out of this story later, especially after his mishaps in trying to learn to sew. (A skill that came in useful after his rescue, though he’s not sure how she’d feel hearing just how much he needed to stitch up his own flesh after his frenzied slaughters.) For now, though, he’s trying his damnedest to follow Dedue’s instructions.

Well. Trying fairly hard, anyway. The way Dedue steps in to gently correct him when he goes awry isn’t exactly a disincentive.

“You’re smoothing out the crust,” Dedue says, “not interrogating it.”

Dimitri frowns down at the lumpy sheet of dough he’s battered into submission with his rolling pin. Dedue, of course, is right; it’s much too thin in the middle, while the edges remain stubbornly thick. Flinging the rolling pin aside, he wads the dough up yet again to make another attempt.

Dedue clears his throat. “May I show you?”

“It’ll save us both some time and frustration.”

Dimitri starts to turn to relinquish his station in the sprawling fortress kitchen to Dedue, but the man surprises him, instead moving to stand behind him. Dedue’s arms curve around him as his large hands cup over Dimitri’s, guiding him until they’re both gripping the ends of the rolling pin. Dimitri is terribly aware that he should be paying attention now more than ever, but all he can focus on is the solid warmth of Dedue at his back; the rough slide of callused palms over his knuckles; the steady sound of Dedue’s breath as it stirs the shaggy hair at Dimitri’s neck.

“Like so.” Dedue uses Dimitri’s hands to smooth out the dough, applying a solid, even pressure. Dimitri is very grateful to be wearing a shirt himself right now; if he weren’t, Dedue’s still-bare chest would be very distracting indeed.

“I . . . I think I’m getting it.” Dimitri’s heart is high in his throat. He has no idea if he’s getting it or not. He couldn’t care less. All he can think of is this glorious man who’s come back from the dead; of this presence, this nearness, he never imagined he might feel again. If he is dead; if this is the goddess’s way of carrying him off into the afterlife; then he can’t imagine what he’s done to earned such an end. He can’t imagine ever returning to the shade of a life he lived when he thought Dedue was dead.

“Your Highness?” Dedue asks gently, hands sliding further down Dimitri’s own. Bringing his chest closer to Dimitri’s back.

Dimitri’s mouth feels dry and hot as the massive clay oven in the corner of the room. “I—I was just thinking.”

The pause in Dedue’s breath was fleeting, but enough for Dimitri to notice. He notices everything about him.

“That this—” Dimitri squeezs his eye shut, but there’s no use in stopping now. “That it reminds me of old times.”

This time Dedue’s inhale of breath is more palpable, and Dimitri’s sure he’s crossed an unforgivable line. Maybe it is the goddess’s punishment after all. Those nights belonged to other men—to other _boys_, if he’s being honest. A foolish, idealistic young prince and his just as foolishly devoted young liege. Whatever Dimitri might have felt, those furtive nights at the Officers’ Academy couldn’t possibly have meant the same to Dedue. They were young and hungry and short on opportunities elsewhere—well. Dimitri couldn’t imagine Dedue ever wanting for company, if he desired it. But _Dimitri _was young and in love, and for reasons he couldn’t quite fathom, Dedue was willing to entertain him, even in this.

Those boys were dead. Sacrificed to a senseless war. Dimitri may still cling to that childish notion of love, but Dedue—

Dedue’s fingers flex in the spaces between Dimitri’s, and goddess, if it doesn’t bring a very visceral and _very_ inappropriate memory to mind of them being situated in a position much like this, only those interlaced fingers were the only grip Dimitri had on reality, because the rest of him was being rent apart—

“And . . .” And is it Dimitri’s foolish hopes, or is there a certain huskiness in Dedue’s voice? “Were those . . . times you enjoyed?”

Dimitri can’t suppress the whimper those words wrench straight out of him. Still, it takes a monumental act of will to answer as he does. “I only enjoyed them because . . . I believed you wanted them, too.” He sags forward. “But I didn’t think, then. The unfairness of it. The likelihood you were only doing what I wished because of the power I held—”

A nose buries into Dimitri’s hair, a breath gusts across the back of his ear, and Dimitri couldn’t possibly remember what more he was trying to say.

“May I speak freely, Your Highness?”

Dimitri rears up, offended. “Of course you may. You _always_ may—”

“I know that.” Is he imagining it, or is there a smile in Dedue’s tone? “I only wished for you to confirm it, so you might well and truly believe what I’m about to say.”

“Th—then yes.”

Dedue’s laughter rumbles against his scalp. “I have never, and will never, want anything or anyone more. However . . . if you do not feel the same for me, then I won’t speak of it again.” That voice, usually such a bedrock for Dimitri’s thoughts, quavers. “If it is better for me to leave your service for good than to know what I feel, so be it, but you deserve the truth.”

Dimitri’s mind is sparking against the flint of his words, unable to even process them, much less believe them. “Am I to understand that you . . . you feel for me the way Sylvain feels for Felix?”

Dedue chuckles again. “Hopefully in not just the same way, but yes.”

“Like Mercedes loves Annette?”

“Oh? I confess I hadn’t been made aware of that one. But if you say so, then yes.”

“Yes, well, we had to share a tent with Felix and Sylvain on the march. Annette and Mercedes are a bit more subtle.” Dimitri smiles in spite of himself.

Dedue sighs. “You feel the same, then?”

“Goddess, yes. A thousand times, yes.”

Dedue slides one hand to Dimitri’s wrist and whips him around until they are face to face, that fierce, intent gaze boring into him. Dimitri’s mouth falls open, and he’s suddenly aware once more of how much of his disastrous attempted pie he’s covered in, and how frightful he must look.

Dedue kisses him all the same.

It’s a wave crashing against cliffs, the taller man pinning him against the counter, framing him with his arms. But Dimitri is not about to relent, not after yearning so long for this again. They both taste like sugar, but Dedue’s mouth also lingers with sweat and four-spice tea and the unshed energy of a battle easily won. And maybe it’s bloodlust, and maybe it’s hopeless, but Dimitri finds himself surging forward too, hands at Dedue’s face, holding him in place like a tether back to himself.

Dedue’s palms curl around the backs of Dimitri’s calves and he hoists the prince up onto the countertop, hips fitting between Dimitri’s thighs. Dimitri shudders at the crushing weight of the heavier man against the stubborn erection he’d been trying to hide. But Dedue’s cock is there as well, straining against the thin linen pants he’d worn to train, and Dimitri whimpers. He remembers all too clearly the way it looked, once, with his mouth around it. With Dedue’s nails raking against his scalp. He remembers the way it used to fill him, or how it filled Dimitri’s palm as he filled Dedue in turn.

Dedue’s mouth works down Dimitri’s chin and to the taut lines of his throat, teeth frantic, scrabbling. He’s never seen this man so unraveled, save for those nights. “Please,” Dimitri whispers, gripping tight against Dedue’s back. “Goddess, I need you still.”

Dedue buries his lips against the hollow at the base of Dimitri’s throat. “And what of your pie?”

Dimitri groans. Dips his hand in the loose flour they’d sprinkled across the flour. Then presses a palm print to Dedue’s cheek. “Who fucking cares?”

It’s all the invitation, apparently, Dedue needs. He unfastens his prince’s belt and breeches in a fervor, exposing Dimitri’s shaft, already leaking and flushed pink. Then he fumbles his own linen pants open, and there it is, that glorious sight, velvety and massive, and then Dedue is gripping them both in one fist, tugging and pumping as he bites his prince’s neck.

“Goddess, Dedue. Please. I’ve missed every inch of you—aah!”

Dimitri arches his back as the pace reaches a fevered pitch, but that only makes Dedue wrap his free arm that much tighter around his waist. Binding them together. Inseparable. Their mouth crash together again, just teeth and tongue and the urgency of too many years apart and not enough years ahead. But maybe now, maybe, Dimitri can cling to this—his reason for living, his reason to fight. A man so much better than him it breaks him apart and heals him all at once.

“I cherish you,” Dedue grunts, gasping for air. “Do not ever question my love for you again.”

“I love you, Dedue.” Dimitri meets his gaze, holding to this moment before bliss. “I won’t.”

And then he tears apart, white-hot agony consuming him, his Dedue the only thing he sees and feels holding him together again.

* * *

Two hours later, they somehow manage to finish baking their pie, though Sylvain looks far too nauseated from the drinking contest to even contemplate a bite. Felix eats both of their shares—if he isn’t sober, Dimitri would never know it. Even Ingrid is listing from side to side in her chair, righted only by the occasional nudge from Mercedes.

As Dedue carries him off to bed—actually picking him up with a growl full of promise as soon as they’ve left the great hall—he kisses Dimitri again, cradling him close. “They didn’t suspect, did they?”

Dimitri feathers his fingers against the flourprint on Dedue’s cheek, knowing full well there’s an accompanying pair on Dedue’s back. “Oh, no,” Dimitri murmurs. “Not a thing.”


End file.
